Red
by Charlemagne Gryffis
Summary: Can You. Can You Wipe Out. That. Much. RED.


It had always been about proving she was best.

In the Red Room, if you lost, you died. She couldn't remember time before the Red Room, she couldn't remember anything but a face. It was one that matched her own, but with green eyes instead of blue, and brown hair instead of wildfire red. Her past – her _true_ past – was something she desperately wished to recover, yet if anyone, even Clint asked, she would say it didn't matter – there was no need to dwell in any place other than the present.

But of course, that was a lie, and others could see it, yet not in the way that was obvious. If they suspected it was a lie, it was through the term _present_. They thought the life of an assassin reflected on their future, that everything they did could change it. In ways they were right, but she honestly didn't care about her future. If anything, she didn't want a future.

That was why she wanted to be the best. When her future was no more, she wanted to be remembered – even if that memory was tainted, flinch-worthy. She wanted to be remembered, even if it were for how many kills she had, even if it were for saving the Earth.

So when being an Avenger finally impacted on her life, she was both content and angered. Her movements were monitored by the Press, and with that she had no freedom, yet a safety net. She couldn't be killed outright, lest her killers wish for the nation, the world to hunt them down for killing one of their saviours. Yes, it was hard not being able to go out somewhere without being asked for her autograph, and not being able to go on as many missions for SHIELD – that must have been the hardest thing – but at least she would go down as one of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

Staring out onto the New York skyline from her apartment in Stark Tower, she watched the civilians get on with their day. Cars went up and down the road, cabs honked their horns in the traffic jams.

She turned swiftly, going to the bathroom. The silk robe slipped off her, leaving her only in her chemise. She stared at herself in the mirror, raking her eyes up her form. It disgusted her how her scars didn't show, how they _healed_. The serum flowing through her veins was a curse. She looked away from the reflection and sat down against the wall, opening the box with practised motions.

The first time she had done it, things had been fuzzy. Drowning herself in liquor only worked for so long before it affected her work. _Pain_, however, was short-term if she timed it right. The blade in her hand was simply, with a sharp edge. If she were any less caring, the blade would probably be tinted red, but that wasn't case. She always cleaned up after herself, _especially_ when it came to this blade.

Clint was meticulous when it came to his bi-monthly inspections of her flat, looking for just that.

Raising her arm, she sliced the blade through her flesh, creating a slightly curved cut. The pain was white-hot, not enough to bother her, but she sunk into it. Her pain centre enveloped her, numbing her senses. The sensation started to fade, and with another well-practised motion she made another cut.

Natasha wasn't usually suicidal, but in that moment she wondered if the world would be a better place without her. She was damaged, broken, a _monster_. Unwillingly, Loki's words echoed in her ears.

"_Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter? São Paulo? The Hospital Fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer...PATHETIC! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!"_

The worst part was, he was right.

So she changed the trajectory of her blade and cut her wrist instead. When Clint found her the next morning, her eyes were shut and her expression peaceful.

Even if the red stained her skin.


End file.
